


Where Bones Lie

by Earthiana



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anorexia, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Eating Disorders, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Hurt Matt Murdock, Insomnia, Matt Murdock Angst, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Sensory Overload, Seriously there's angst, Sleep Deprivation, Suicidal Ideation, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, The Avengers Are Good Bros, Trauma, super senses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-03-30 15:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13954869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earthiana/pseuds/Earthiana
Summary: He should wash the suit. Groceries, then suit.And work. Matt should head to work, clean out his things. Foggy might come back if Matt leaves, just to give him some space. He should dig out that partnership agreement and, of course, brush his teeth. He’s still wearing the suit. He’ll wash it tonight. After brushing and work and groceries. Opening his eyes, too.If he had to cut one, it would probably be the groceries.





	1. Nullity

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm back again with yet another Daredevil fanfic, hopefully not quite as long as Vacation Time, but close enough. As much as I like VT, I anticipate this fanfic to be a bit more fleshed-out. Instead of being focused on so many different aspects of Matt, I'm planning on targeting one or two main themes in a more comprehensible way. While I admit it's very similar, this fanfic will definitely look at some different issues and mix things up!
> 
> To readers old and new, enjoy! :)

When he meets Spider-Man, he was considering jumping.

Stepping off the edge of the rooftop and allowing his body to endure the fall from grace. Matt likes to think of it in that way; he’s an angel too dark for Heaven, not a man plagued with illness. Things get too real as he thinks about the dynamics of it, so Matt shuffles his feet closer to the edge of the rooftop, cocking his head for one last listen to the city.

_My best friend is blocks away from our firm, our home, and there's nothing I can do to bring him back._

_Fisk is running Ryker's – even the guards are under his thumb – and I have no clue how to stop him._

_My enemies are hiding all around, watching everything I do, and I can't find them._

_For the first time in months, I find myself in the familiar, crippling grip of overwhelming depression._

Matt gets over it when pattering feet traverse the rooftops in his direction. A young, fluttering heartbeat shudders at the sight of him, no doubt in trepidation, before a light voice accompanies it.

“Daredevil?”

Hesitation. Spider-Man stands behind him, unassuming and relaxed, while Matt tenses in his suit. He’s heard the boy is young, which is immediately a giveaway, but the real clue as to who this brat is revolves around the fact that Matt heard scuttling on the side of a nearby apartment building not minutes ago. The boy’s fast.

“Daredevil.” He affirms, turning around easily. His voice is hard and low, not like this boy’s, and hearing it is almost foreign to his own ears. But Spider-Man doesn’t need to know the ins and outs of Matt’s anxiety, nor does Matt need a brat tailing him, so he grapples from the building without listening for a name.

Depression is inertia. Matt is not a gargoyle but a permanent sentinel over his city, swooping with the wings he’s been given, even if they’re missing a couple of feathers. Any movement is better than this stasis with which he’s become so familiar.

  


_Maybe one_ , he thinks as he draws open the roof access to his corner apartment (he slips that in where he can, proud of something, rather than nothing at all). _One might be surpassable._

He tosses the mask, leaving it out on the open floor. It doesn’t feel messy, not when Matt refuses to care, so he leaves it there. Maybe that means something, maybe it doesn’t.

It’s probably the musings of a sorry bastard. The empty fridge disagrees and his alarm clock makes a point to chime in, but Matt’s gut feeling doesn’t change. He holds no pity for himself when a twinge of pain tickles his stomach.

  


It must be an unfinished argument because Matt’s mind is bullied by reality upon waking. Face flushed from the heat – from the light – through his bedroom window. The ache in his ribs, his stomach and his chest, comes back in full force. The light isn’t hot enough to burn, but Matt never really left his suit, so he’s stuffy. Stuffy and hungry and hot. His eyelids are heavy, so he doesn’t open them for a while. It’s not as if it makes any difference while he ambles to the bathroom, ignoring the thick layer of blood in the air.

He should wash the suit. Groceries, then suit.

And work. Matt should head to work, clean out his things. Foggy might come back if Matt leaves, just to give him some space. He should dig out that partnership agreement and, of course, brush his teeth.

He’s still wearing the suit. He’ll wash it tonight. After brushing and work and groceries. Opening his eyes, too.

It feels wrong, suddenly, before the sink. Thinking of the new list.

If he had to cut one, it would probably be the groceries. Maybe work, too. Karen won’t mind, not now that he’s leaving. Any other day will be just as good. Then again, does he really want some old folders? And if he’s not going anywhere, brushing his teeth can wait an hour. Just until he’s finished with the suit.

He’ll wash the suit, then, just as soon as he gets out of it.

Decided, Matt ambles back to his bedroom. It’s cold, but he remains in his underwear after shrinking out of the heavy uniform. His feet flinch at the floor, but there’s no change in his opinion as he makes his way to the bathtub, nice and slow. He has to hand wash the suit.

It takes a minute to place the smell, maybe it’s coming from the tub instead? Matt? Or the suit, like he thought?

He should be responsible – go back to bed, get himself ready for tonight. Matt considers coffee but there might be blood on his hands and he’s having a crisis.

The smell is coming from all three, he decides. Quite unsure of how to negotiate that, Matt starts the shower head and figures the bath can clean itself while Matt works on himself, win-win.

He’ll wear the old suit tonight.

Matt almost forgets to remove the underwear, caught in a small moment of nullity. The lapse in time isn’t important, so he opens his eyes and draws down the material. It doesn’t feel crisp, like it usually does, like hard linen and scratchy cotton. Instead, Matt barely feels a thing as he removes his boxers and steps underneath the cool spray of water. Again, there’s little pain from the pinprick droplets on his skin.

A knock on his door startles him from his shower, just as he was about to get started.

He ambles out, almost slipping on the base of the bathtub, and reaches for his bathrobe. There’s nothing there. Right, he meant to wash it.

After locating a damp towel, Matt covers himself and pads into his living room, each step leaving a wet print that he’ll probably just leave to dry, instead of locating it later. He still has to wash the suit.

The knocker is increasing in volume, less so in patience, so Matt pulls the door open when he gets there, fairly certain he recognises the scent. He feels too far away to know who’s asking for him.

“Matt, thank goodness.”

Karen, then. Her huff of relief is soft as she strides into the apartment, too quickly for Matt’s head to follow. He pushes the door shut, draws over the deadbolt, then considers turning around. Karen’s gone when he has.

“Matt, where’s your phone?” She demands, her shoes leading her trail into the lounge once more. “I’ve been calling you all morning.”

Not long, then. Wait…

“What time is it?” He asks. It seems a normal question, but Karen’s heart lurches and she pauses.

“What?” She returns, reaching forward to wipe away his hair. It makes his face feel considerably drier. “You look exhausted.”

“I just woke up.” Matt clears his throat. “I was coming to work.”

“You’re about four hours late.” Karen shuffles, perhaps crossing her arms. Matt almost expects to hear a tapping shoe. Her hand reaches out, touches a particularly cold spot on his chest. “Have you been standing under the shower?”

It’s too many questions, and he recalls that he still has to brush his teeth. Matt turns his head towards the sound of the running shower but doesn’t move his legs.

“Are you sick?” Karen slows down, in that moment. She’s gentler when she touches his forehead. Matt closes his eyes, allowing them to drop under the weight of themselves, and leans into the light pressure of her hand. It’s warm to touch.

  


Matt realises it’s not night-time anymore when he finishes putting on his “black pajamas”. The mask isn’t even tied around his head by the time Matt’s attention is drawn to cars roaming the street at a snail’s pace, ambling to work in the early light.

He’s not sure what’s afoot but he hasn’t slept, not that he can remember, and the demands are back. Bathe, Work, Groceries, Suit.

The floor just outside of the bathroom is wet and Matt vaguely hears the shower running, but he doesn’t want to add to the list so he keeps moving, lest time skips another beat.

  


“You shouldn’t be here, Matt, you look exhausted.” Karen reprimands him. He makes his way into the office with his cane, feeling along the wall and barely able to remember the layout of his workplace from memory, not to mention echolocation.

He forgets to mention that he’s fine.

“Is that a plant?” He questions when his foot hits something hard.

“It’s been here as long as I have.” Karen strides over to him, in a considerably lower number of steps than what Matt can remember taking, and takes his arm gently. Karen moves him quickly, dizzyingly fast, into his office, where Matt forgets what he’s supposed to want.

“I didn’t think you were coming back.” Karen says, close to his ear. Matt frowns. In the back of his head, he recalls placing a neat envelope on Foggy’s desk, his signature burned on its contents in hard, unrelenting ink. Matt’s name, capitalised in chicken scrawl, for the rest of eternity.

The partnership agreement.

Matt feels something against his arm. There’s nothing when he turns.

Karen’s voice comes back to him, already speaking too quickly.

“...get lunch and bring it back to your ap—” She’s moving him back into the lobby, guiding his body and his mind at once, despite how separated they feel.

“No.” Matt squints at the thought of food. His glasses aren't on his face, he notices. Where did he leave them?

He’s tired, it’s clear, so he should meditate. Right after groceries.


	2. Devil Rescued

There’s a strip of pulsing blood around his spine, bruising the skin in an even strip. The sit-ups were painful but Matt’s losing muscle from lack of exercise. He needs to be heavier in order to actually do any good for his city. Otherwise, he’s just getting beat up every night and he’s not sure which one’s worse.

The bruise makes itself evident via the burning sensation on his skin. He’s still cold from that shower yesterday and the blood under his skin only seems to emphasise the coolness in his fingertips.

Weight gain is very important for Matt.

So much so that he considers eating something, just for the protein boost. He’s never invested in bars or shakes, so food might be the only option.

Matt closes his eyes to the sound of running water. Lifting his arm makes him a little dizzy, but it continues until he can feel the cupboard handle in his loose grasp. Inside, a box of fibrous, sugar-free cereal and a can of brine tuna. He goes for the tuna since it’s lighter.

He’s not sure if he has a can opener or not, so the fact that his tin doesn’t need one incites a breath of relief.

The tin hovers over the sink in Matt’s hand, wet drops of brine dripping over his hand into the sink. It’s probably clean – it’s only water and salt – so he forgets about the wetness and starts picking flakes of tuna from the tin, bringing them to his mouth.

Instantly, that twinge of hunger is back, more painful than before.

Matt should wash his suit. Maybe have the new one ready for tonight. He’s not sure how fast he’ll bruise at this rate. Not that it’s a concern anymore, what with Karen and Foggy knowing his secrets.

Somewhere, that hurts, but he doesn’t venture for answers.

  


Matt’s stomach lurches as he vomits into the sink, rejecting the tuna from his stomach. It might be the smell. Matt’s always liked tuna, despite its stench, but perhaps this is him realising that tuna stinks.

The vomit is burning the back of his throat but it softens into an old, warm feeling of grime on his tongue. It lines his mouth, almost tasting like oil and fat.

“So you are sick.” Foggy comments. It’s not without care, though maybe it is.

Matt regrets giving him a key to the apartment.

“You always sucked at taking care of yourself.” Foggy goes for a joke, approaching Matt without hesitation. His head moves in the direction of the tuna, then at where Matt is hunched over the sink, watery puke threatening to make its way back up. His mouth feels raw.

“We don’t work together.” Matt wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smells the remnants of brine that he never cared to wash away, and feels his stomach lurch before he can do anything to stop himself. Not that he would.

“You made that abundantly clear.” He hears paper in his friend’s hand, smells himself on it through the smell of sick. The partnership agreement. Foggy places a light hand on his back, but it moves away immediately. “You’re thin.”

Matt doesn’t acknowledge that as he buries his face in the sink, the putrid wisps of what he just done choking his nose as he threatens to spew once more. His arms shake with the trouble of holding him up.

“Why’re you here then?” Matt stands straight, slowly as not to unsettle his head. He wipes his mouth again, this time enduring the smell, and turns with the intention of making it to the couch. He must be struggling with his plight because, after several wobbly steps, Foggy strides closer and takes his arm the same way Matt used to.

Somewhere between sitting down and searching for Foggy, the blond man had already made his way to the kitchen. His hands are rummaging around in his cupboards, opening and closing doors until he locates the cereal. “You might not be sick if you had something good to eat, instead of old tuna.”

Matt doesn’t have the privilege of milk, so Foggy brings him the box of cereal and a spoon.

“You should wash your dishes.” It must be an explanation for the lack of bowl, but Matt doesn’t appreciate the reminder. His head tilts down to the food, sniffs haughtily, then dumps the box on his coffee table. The spoon is lost, somewhere in the cereal dunes.

“You’re skin and bones, Matt. You can’t stop eating because you’re sick.” Foggy gives it back, placing it on his lap. There’s a thick dust clouding up Matt’s mouth and nose with each movement of the box.

When he doesn’t move, Foggy sighs into his hands. He rubs one over his face, brushing through his hair, then he stops to consider Matt. “Look, Karen told me you looked exhausted on Tuesday and I just wanted to check up on you, see if you were ok. Clearly you’re not and clearly that doesn’t worry you but it worries me, so would you just go to bed if you’re not going to eat anything?”

Tuesday? Why didn’t Foggy say ‘yesterday’?

Matt makes a point of giving back the cereal, then twisting his legs up onto the couch. If it’ll make Foggy stop being angry, Matt can pretend to sleep for a while.

“I’ll go get you some dinner, alright?”

  


Foggy doesn’t arrive with dinner by the time its dark, so Matt forfeits the food in favour of his old suit. It smells less like blood than the new one. This time he’s quick, buzzing with so much energy that his heart is beating loud and hard, willing him to notice it. The shirt seems a little looser than he’s used to but this is definitely his suit, so he blames it on the vomiting and makes his way out of the roof access into the night.

Matt doesn’t hear any ominous activity for hours. It makes him consider that, perhaps, he’ll just be waiting in the cold until morning comes and Foggy is long gone.

His hands are shaking. He doesn’t trust them to make the next jump to a rusty fire escape, so he crouches on one corner of the roof and waits for something to happen. Very quickly, however, Matt’s legs give out underneath him and he falls onto his back, hitting the bruise full force.

He cries out soundlessly. His eyes feel heavy again, just like yesterday (or days ago?) and Matt closes them, just for a moment. The strength in his legs pulls his knees, which were bent and pointed to the sky, over to one side. There’s no energy left in his muscles, wherever they are.

Matt thinks that perhaps he smells tuna before his eyes close, unprecedented.

  


“Should I bring him over? He doesn’t exactly look very heavy.”

Matt’s eyes open slowly. The fabric of his mask rubs against his face, protecting him from the light pinpricks of water against his face. It wets his lips, since there’s no moisture in Matt’s tongue, even if he wanted to run it over the cracked skin.

“I think he’s waking up—Daredevil?” The voice pesters him, calling in one ear. It’s too loud for the morning and Matt’s so tired. Maybe he can just close his eyes for a second and nothing bad will happen.

Not his shower, then.

“Daredevil, can you hear me?” A snapping set of fingers accompanies it, moving around his face before being set off like tiny bombs in his ears. “You need a doctor. I won’t touch the mask, but I’m going to take you somewhere safe.”

The body is young, but it lifts Matt with ease. He’s almost offended until he remembers how small he is. Fogwell’s gym needs to be paid another visit, in the near future, but, for now, Matt can’t help leaning into the warm body hauling his body around like a ragdoll. There’s a hard, versatile suit, not unlike the material of his own, that meets his flesh. It rubs him the wrng way, making the hairs on his arms stand up. The back of his neck feels sore and hot. His head feels hot.

“Don’t fall asleep.” He’s reminded, then there’s the sweeping feeling of falling, but it pulls Matt forward, dragging him through the crisp air. “Come on, Man, stay with me.”

He takes a couple more breaths, but his head starts to droop and the heat he was syphoning seems so far away.

“Daredevil.” In his ear. “Don’t fall asleep.

Matt’s breathing evens out, the frantic beating of his heart simmering.

“Don’t fall asleep.”


	3. Sanctions

Consciousness returned to Matt under a cotton blanket that scratched his skin but warmed his core. His face is flushed from the new warmth, he can feel it in his cheeks. Despite this pleasantness, his fingertips are cold against his bare thighs and there’s no hope for opening his eyes, or even moving at all.

Wakefulness is a fleeting concept that leaves Matt in a hot comatose state.

  


Moving is the mistake he makes. It’s his second chance he has at waking. The heaviness is back, but it feels wrong. Forced. Matt’s immediate reaction is to twist his head, try to listen for something notable. He can’t see, not through his eyes or ears, and the world seems trapped behind a veil. Matt can’t find his way across.

His brain swirls when a pair of hands attempt to settle his head, moving it into a central position so Matt can rest.

However, Matt’s curious to know what his subconscious is trying to warn him about.

There’s panic in his chest, sitting there like a heavy ape beating the drum of his heart with hard fists. He feels drugged, which he’d normally hate, but the tiredness was still too acute for him to think properly.

The smell of antiseptic is hot in his nose, and it’s the only thing that sticks with him as he slips back into the unconscious.

  


The third time, Matt doesn’t feel so tired. It takes several long moments until he can actually move his body and, when he feels capable, he lifts his hand to his face to wipe away the sweat he smells there. Painfully, he recalls the IV.

“Careful.” A soothing voice reminds him and it’s the same hands as before that are touching him. Hands that feel freshly sanitised and moisturised immediately after. They’re careful and the skin feels soft to touch, which comforts Matt immediately. Maybe this is just Spider-Man.

“Daredevil, I’m Dr Bruce Banner.” His voice is equally soft, almost timid. His voice is rich in enunciation, but lacking conviction to follow it up. “Do you have any questions for me?”

“You’ve seen my face.” Matt accuses weakly, barely able to hold up his head. Despite being well-rested, his body is lethargic and weighted.

“That is correct.” There’s a light movement of hair – the doctor is nodding. “However, I uphold patient-doctor confidentiality with all of my clients. I was concerned that you might have sustained a head injury.”

Sighing, Matt feels the energy drain out of him under this line of questioning. “Where am I?”

“Avengers Tower.”

Matt closes his eyes and almost feels tempted to fall back asleep. But his concerns come back with gusto – groceries, Foggy, the suit, he hasn’t washed in days…

He’s not making a very good impression, slick with sweat and smelling probably just as putrid to Banner as he does to himself.

“Shall I call you Daredevil?” Banner asks, moving around to the other side of his bed. He lightly wraps one hand under Matt’s wrist, holds his hand where the IV is protruding. Matt doesn’t reply, so the doctor must take that as his answer. “Daredevil, I have some concerns about your weight.”

Matt shifts his attention back to his list. Once he gets home, maybe he can try the shower again.

No, not the shower.

“You’re underweight.” Banner clarifies, his heart jumping nervously. “You have low levels of electrolytes in your blood.”

Matt struggles to sit up, but his arms shake with tremors. “Let me go.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.” Bruce steps back, Matt can hear him. “Please, sit back down.”

“You can’t keep me here.” Matt accuses. For the first time in a while, he’s not struggling to back it up with some heat.

“I can if I think you’ll kill yourself.” Bruce clarifies. His voice is hard, authoritative. “I have two doctors ready to confirm that, but I’d much rather—”

“You can’t sanction me.” Matt states. There’s nothing much on his side anymore. If Banner _does_ have two doctors, he can do what he likes. Then again. “I’m not going to kill myself.”

“You have dangerously low levels of electrolytes in your blood, abnormal and irregular heartbeats, and I can attest to a risk of potentially fatal cardiac arrest.” Bruce doesn’t move and his heart is steady.

Matt sinks back onto his bed, lightly raising a hand to his chest. That energy – those hot, frantic beats – comes back as he moves. This time, Matt can’t turn his mind away from the topic.

“I don’t want to scare you.” His feet tap evenly across the floor to Matt’s position. “But you need medical attention and if you’re not going to receive it…”

  


Peter taps his foot against the floor anxiously. Maybe he should just go for a crawl, try to scare Hawkeye, then come back. Daredevil might have cooled off by then. Apparently he gave Bruce a hard time, so who knows what he’ll be like with the guy who carried him here.

“Kid.” Tony nods his head at Peter, strutting along the corridor. “He’s up if you wanna go through.”

“Yeah. Go talk to Daredevil. No biggie. I can do that.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, then looks along the corridor in the med bay to Daredevil’s assigned room. “You done good, Kid. Just don’t talk about his weight. Don’t want him thinking he’s fat or anything.”

Peter shuffles, thinking about how frail Daredevil felt when he carried him to the tower. He’s a short man already, not much taller than Tony Stark, but Peter’s fanboying over Daredevil assured him that the man was by no means lacking in muscle. That is, until recently.

Peter ambles along the hall, stopping in front of the door.

When he asks Jarvis for confirmation, he’s allowed inside. Pushing open the door reveals Daredevil sitting on the white bed, swaddled in thick blankets yet looking like he should be in a casket. The upper half of his face is hidden by his old mask, no doubt Bruce gave it to him after he left for his lunch break, but the rest looks angular and pale, like the sharp skull of a skeleton.

He _is_ skeletal. It’s not obvious with his stubble, perhaps he’s just sick, but the jutting ribs of his bare chest display obvious signs of starvation.

“I don’t think I’m fat.” His voice is low and filled with contempt.

Daredevil looks small. His hands are shaking and Peter can smell fresh sweat – he’s probably as scared as Peter felt when he watched his body toppled to the ground, lifeless.

But Peter’s not interfering with his body weight concerns, so he approaches the side of the bed. He steps forward, fishing the small burner phone out of the pocket of his suit, and holds it out for the other man. “This is yours. I haven’t looked in it, I swear.”

Daredevil drops his head but not as if he’s looking at the phone – Peter can’t tell through the mask – more like his head is too heavy.

He reaches out, takes the phone slowly. His fingers are thin and long and icy; Peter wants to take his hand and warm him up but he doesn’t think his hero would appreciate that, so he offers it up quietly.

“How old are you?”

Peter can’t pull his hand back immediately, caught by surprise. When he does, he clears his throat. “Nineteen.”

Peter thinks Daredevil might be raising an eyebrow under the mask but it’s hard to tell.

“Don’t lie to me.” The throaty voice Daredevil typically uses is gone. The Devil sounds young too, maybe older than Peter, but not quite Tony’s level of adult. It’s just as flat, but there’s no anger behind it.

Peter appreciates Daredevil. Appreciates that he’s a red-clad, street-level hero. Seeing Daredevil so weak now but remembering him up against some lowlifes the other night only reinforces the idea that he’s physically enhanced, too. He’s relatable and Peter, still young to the game, appreciates a little relatable in his life.

“Sixteen.” Peter amends instantly, face coloured red at the idea of Daredevil catching him out. How, he’s not sure.

“You in school?”

Spider-Man squirms slightly under Matt’s badgering but he answers readily. “Yeah, high school.”

Daredevil is still for a moment, looking past Peter as if there’s something else on his mind. After a while, he tilts his head.

“You should go.”

No “thanks for saving my life” but, by the looks of it, Daredevil doesn’t really want to live. Peter’s ears pick up on Bruce coming along the corridor, smelling like cheese and onion chips. Maybe coffee, too, or that might be Tony hovering outside, he can’t tell. He turns his head to Daredevil, who is resting his head back against the pillows.

“See ya.”


	4. Fasting

Matt doesn’t leave the med bay – not without Dr Banner’s permission. It’s the first rule of many, he fears.

Banner watches him from the doorway, fading in and out of Matt’s senses. It’s not until Matt feels his eyes closing, softly, that Bruce turns himself around, startling Matt into consciousness. He smells something vaguely familiar, but he’s too unaware to establish the source or origin of the aroma, so he tilts his head until his left cheek is touching the pillow and takes a single deep breath.

There’s a moment, maybe more than a moment, that Matt loses somewhere behind his drooping eyelids.

When his thoughts come back, Karen’s perfume is close to his nose. She’s hugging him, sort of, by leaning over the bed and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Karen’s here. Why is Karen here? He stifles a yawn into her shoulder, slumping over when he’s finished because, somehow, he’s breathless again.

“Matt.” She breathes, pulling back. He rights himself as the structure she provided pulls away. Her hand traces his shoulder – he’s still in just his underwear – and stops on the base of his neck, where it almost hurts to feel her grazing his collar bone.

“Did I call you?” He can’t remember, honestly, where his day has gone. There was something to do with Spider-Man, but nothing he can recall.

“I called Miss Page.” Bruce reminds Matt, crossing the room to his bedside. “Daredevil, do you remember our conversation?”

Matt hears Karen turning to Bruce when he uses Matt’s alias. She might say something, but Matt’s trying to remember the lucid moments between sleep deprivation and hunger.

Ah, yes. Matt needed clothes.

“You brought my things.” He says in understanding. Karen’s presence is overwhelming, so Foggy’s voice startles him when he speaks up from the end of the bed.

“You left your shower running. Flooded the bathroom.” Foggy drops something heavy on the floor.

Matt’s mind drifts at the mention of the shower.

_Matt steps under the spray of water. His body shudders at the icy water – he needs to call maintenance about the boiler. The cold has become a constant and if it weren’t for the fact that there’s no heat in his apartment to begin with, he might be worried that he can’t seem to warm his fingers._

_The sigh he takes is masked by the splash of water at his toes. Taking a shower is an easy thing to do, it should be easy. However, Matt’s frame is protesting at the effort of standing up and his knees start to ache under the pressure._

_He’d meant to sleep last night. And he would have, had he been able to get comfortable and, for once, just close his eyes. Now, he feels like he’s sinking in the shower water, even if it doesn’t pass the soles of his feet. A thin layer of water slicks his face as he sticks his head under the spray, closing his eyes._

_Karen’s at the door. Karen with her sweet perfume and the lingering fumes of poorly-made coffee._

_The water pummels his face. Reaching out a hand, he wraps it around the handle._

_Matt’s balance sways as dizziness takes over, bringing him to his knees in the bathtub._

“…flooded your neighbour’s ceiling. I’m taking care of it.” Foggy continues, his voice dry.

“You don’t need to do that.” He licks his lips.

“I do, Matt. Because when you do shit like this, it doesn’t just affect you. It hurts other people too.” Foggy snaps, but Karen is eager to soothe the tension in the air by smoothing a hand over Matt’s coarse hair.

“We hate seeing you like this, Matt.” Karen’s crying. The taste of salt fills the air, lining Matt’s chest with guilt as she leans into him and reaches for his hand, pausing at the sight of the IV.

“You didn’t have to come.” He tells Foggy. At this point, Bruce rounds the bed and places himself between the two men. Matt lowers his head but he can hear Foggy’s heart stutter, even if he can’t see the hurt on his best friend’s face.

 _He has no obligation to me._ Matt’s attention moves to Bruce, who collects a blanket from the tray table attached to the bed, tossing it over Matt’s shoulders and upper torso.

“I think it’s time you try and get some rest.” Matt’s never felt more gratitude for Bruce than in this moment, even if it’s his fault things can’t continue as normal. His hands check the IV, making sure the tube isn’t tangled, before he reaches for the bed’s remote. The whirring is irritating for a mere moment but Matt thinks he might actually be able to sleep.

As long as he’s alone.

  


Banner gives him the rundown of what’s happening. He’s supposed to stay until his health is less of a risk or, as he hears it, until Matt gains weight. That means eating.

Daredevil fully objects to a wheelchair, but he regrets it as he leans on the wall of the elevator, ragged breaths shaking his chest. Bruce offers support, though it doesn’t feel very optional when Bruce holds Matt’s arm anyway, giving him something to lean against.

There’s a couple of floors Stark has designated as the living area. As far as Bruce tells him, Hawkeye and Black Widow share one floor, Thor has one to himself when he visits, Bruce and Tony share the penthouse for lab purposes, and Captain America shares with the Winter Soldier. That’s where Matt’s going to be staying, sandwiched between the superhero of his childhood fantasies and Bucky Barnes, the enigma.

Bruce only gives Matt his bags after checking its contents. His clothes are shaken out and every seam is traced as if the doctor expects to find illegal drugs or something else. His cane is handed to him directly, with no probing questions attached.

“I’m making sure there’s nothing you can use to self-harm.” He explains, but Matt feels no less like a prisoner as his duffel is sat on his new bed. Thankfully, the sound of silk sheets soothes his worries.

“I don’t do that.” Matt corrects, but Bruce’s reaction is immediate and perfected.

“You starve yourself.” He points out, then turns his head to Matt. “Enough of that. Now that you’re in the main tower, I should introduce you to Jarvis. Jarvis is Tony’s artificial intelligence.”

“Good evening, Mr Murdock.”

Jarvis is an English voice coming from nowhere in particular. Matt feels vaguely as if he’s been snuck up on, but it’s not a problem.

Cameras and microphones riddled throughout the tower are problems.

“He’s not in the med bay?” Matt finds himself asking, voice feeling far off.

“Security reasons.” Bruce offers then makes his way to the door. His feet turn back to Matt, pausing. “There’s enough time before dinner to get some rest.”

Sleep. Eat.

Matt nods his head in acknowledgement but he feels far away from Bruce.

Naively, Matt assumed everything would get better after Fisk. Maybe he could sit down with Foggy and Karen, get drunk and joke endlessly. Or even have a meal together.

Turns out he missed his rewards while he was working for them, because Foggy and Karen’s escapades were frequent and they never include Matt. Not for lack of trying, either.

The days that followed Fisk’s imprisonment did not present as a respite – time to heal his body and perhaps spend some time knocking down walls, making his city a better place. But Fisk wasn’t crime and the murders didn’t stop. Matt was worn thin. Between tracking drug lords and human trafficking rings, there was no time to bulk up.

Then the office became Foggy’s and there was no time to eat. Somewhere along the way, Matt started choosing. Food never came first.

Matt twists his head around the room, listening for something that might not be there. Another sound shadow in the darkest reaches of his hearing.

He drops the cane in his hand. It’s too heavy, anyway – he doesn’t need it.

His lips crack open when he sobs, fresh blood seeping into the air and choking his nose. It’s metallic and rich and sickening, but he’s never made himself throw up on purpose. Only in the moments when stress feels like a punch to the gut does he empty himself.

Matt sobs.

Isolated in the new bedroom (it’s painfully sparse and minimalist and it suits him), the gravity of his situation stops his mind from wandering. Stops him from listing and categorising and obsessing over the tuna clogging up his sink. Matt’s being (willingly?) sanctioned for psychiatric help.

Maybe it’s not a surprise but it’s no less terrifying. 

So he sobs, quiet but anguished. Sinking to the floor, he feels his hips ache upon impact and wonders how much time he has left. If dying is a good thing or a bad thing. He doesn’t even have a will – he’s a God damned _lawyer_ – or friends to send his worldly possessions to.

Perhaps mortification of the self will get him into Heaven.


	5. Shades

Captain America is insultingly taller than Matt.

He’s sitting on the floor when Steve Rogers interrupts, broad-shouldered and looming. He can’t help but wonder how it feels to have muscle and not need to maintain it with exercise or food. The exercise, he doesn’t mind.

“Daredevil.” His voice is strong and crisp, but there’s some hesitation there. “Bruce asked me to come get you.”

It’s an explanation for why he’s intruding.

Funny that dinner coincided with his little ‘moment’. 

“Matt.” He grunts, leaning back until breathing slowly becomes easier again. Captain America kneels beside him, crouched and facing Matt. He nods in acknowledgement.

“Steve.” He introduces himself. “Want to come downstairs and meet the others?”

“Is that your clever ploy to bring the horse to water?” Matt scoffs, grabbing the bed with one arm. He struggles to his feet, trying to distribute his weight into his arms. He swats at his face, not bothering to properly rub away the tears. Steve seen him cry, anyway.

“Maybe?” He chuckles and it’s an annoying noise to Matt. Steve picks something up then joins Matt, presenting the object in one hand. Upon further investigation, Matt recognises his cane.

No-one’s even mentioned the blindness, or his face, or Daredevil, and it pisses him off for some reason. The bright energy builds in his chest, then explodes in a flurry of adrenaline as Matt takes off in a brisk walk to where he _thinks_ the elevator might be.

Steve follows closely, reluctant to object despite his worry.

  


The communal floor is quiet when Matt and Steve arrive, thankfully. To add to his luck, Steve leaves Matt alone, wandering off while the redhead strides into the darkness. His cane unfolds during the walk, easily pieced together in enough time for Matt to prod the couch and find a secluded spot to take up residence.

He’s wearing his own sweats and a T-shirt but everything feels oversized. Perhaps it’s something he should have noticed. Though, if his appearance is so telling, the baggy clothes might be a good thing. He shifts to run his hands together, feeling the chill return with vengeance.

It doesn’t take long for the room to fill up, which suggests to Matt that there isn’t any other room with an obnoxiously large table. They’re eating in the lounge.

“What’s that?” A voice asks near him.

His eyelids drop closed, unprepared for questioning, but another voice responds instead.

A scuffle of feet, then the light slap of skin against a flat surface.

“You can’t be serious, he looks like death. Literal death.” It’s the first person again and Matt can only presume they’re talking about him. He opens his eyes in surprise, then creases his brow.

“Please, it’s hardly ready for falling off of buildings just yet.” A flippant retort. Light, articulate.

Bruce clears his throat from the left side of these men (and Matt). “Daredevil, dinner’s about to start, would you like to—”

Whatever it is: “No.”

Matt hears startle breathing as he pushes himself to his feet. He showed up, now he’s ready to return to the previous floor. At least he can try to get some sleep.

The cane irritates him as it bumps into a plant, so he tosses it at the floor in haste.

“You don’t have to eat anything.” Bruce amends. There’s a vague whoosh of air that might be a hand gesture but he’s too dizzy to tell. “Perhaps the team can introduce themselves.”

Maybe it’s the hunger – because, yes, he starves himself but it doesn’t mean he’s not _hungry_ – and he’s irritable, but the scowl returns.

“I’m starting to prefer the section, Doctor.” Matt hisses. At least he could find some time to disappear if he could just leave first. Banner would have to gather—

His hand reaches out for something, anything, but finds nothing. His body sways but Bruce is quick to jump in, supporting Matt’s waist.

“Easy.” He urges, guiding Matt’s form to the couch he was sitting on previously.

A plant brushes his leg. Huh.

Bruce returns the cane in one hand while the other makes use of inspecting Matt’s hand. “Steve, can you grab me the blanket?”

Matt tilts against the backrest, shaking away the sudden light-headedness. His hearing turns patchy for a moment or two until he feels Bruce wrapping a scratchy blanket around his shoulders and the grating of cotton against flesh calls out to him like nails on a chalkboard.

“Daredevil, can you tell me how you’re feeling right now?” Bruce uses the doctor voice, sounding somewhat patronising, if only trying to be comprehensible.

“Matt.” He shoves the man away lightly, no force welling up in his arm. He has no doubt Stark’s machine already knows who he is.

“Matt, alright.” Banner stands up straight, no longer leaning over his personal space. He’s curious if he smells be B.O. or not. Probably the former. “Why don’t you guys start dinner?”

It’s not for Matt to respond to, which is really good because he can’t formulate a thought with the way his mind is swimming between his ears.

“Would you like something to eat?” Bruce offers. It sounds like a real question, so Matt shakes his head as little as possible. “How about something to drink?”

A smile quirks in his lips. “Beer?”

“No alcohol.” Bruce answers evenly, though he does turn around and move away. Matt’s heart spurs with energy, alerting him that Bruce might actually bring something back.

“Water.” He pipes up, then shifts forward on the couch. “But I’ll do it.”

Bruce leads him to the kitchen, a room which smells like flavour and decay. He stops in his tracks at the door, lowering his head. For a moment, he concentrates on breathing, but he does force himself inside.

Chlorine treatment and metal pipes lead him to the fridge, which must be overstocked by the sheer smell of it. Bruce stands by, probably making sure he doesn’t lose his balance.

Matt knows where the bottles are immediately but he’s not so sure about putting his hand near the fridge and having it smell like rotting meat.

The food isn’t old, far from it, but he can smell it aging. Oxidising. Dying.

Matt doesn’t need this dependency. He’s perfectly fine without food and, when it gets bad, some tuna. Thinking about it, he should eat soon. There’s no way he’s getting out of here if he doesn’t make some progress and there’s no way he’s Daredevil-ing if he can’t stand up straight.

He’s not really sure if drinking will make him less hungry but it’s better than nothing. Chlorine and metal – he can deal with.

Bruce closes the door for Matt when he shrinks away from it.

The Avengers are doing a really shitty job of minding their own business. Perhaps Matt is their business now.

“Matt – wait, can we use your name now?” Articulate; Stark. It’s a confirmation that he didn’t really need.

“Might as well.” He sighs, fingering the lid of the bottle. His nails sound chipped and coarse as he drags them along the plastic.

“Well, uh, I’m Tony Stark.” The direction of the voice moves so Tony might be turning to look around the room. “Sorry for not seeing you behind the plant.”

That might be the best introduction he gets out of Stark but, as lame as it is, it’s better than his current standing with Bruce.

“Seconded.” An equally casual voice calls out. It’s muffled by moisture and the stench of oil. The sound of teeth dragging against layers of cooked flesh is enough to encourage Matt to turn his head away, ready to drop the bottled water and escape this forsaken tower. A dry swallow. “I’m Clint.”

“You’ve met Steve.” Bruce moves on quickly, noticing how Matt has become slightly paler than before, if possible. “This is Natasha.”

“Matthew.” The silky, ominous voice addresses him. It reminds Matt of his escapades with Elektra. The Widow, then. And if they’re all accounted for, who exactly is Banner?

He recognises the name, vaguely, but he doesn’t exactly fit the demigod or beast persona Matt has in his head for each. Then again, Matt’s not sure if “Thor” is a title or not. Obviously he’s not Bucky Barnes, so it must be one of the two, or just the team doctor. That seems likely.

“Would a movie be insensitive?” Stark is talking, suddenly. A sweeping, technological noise follows up his actions on whatever device he is using.

Matt’s a little surprised, but the others aren’t when he slowly asks how they knew.

“You’re holding a cane, Dude.”

Matt’s head tilts in Clint’s direction, his ear moving. His hand jumps to his face suddenly, feeling the bridge of his nose as he remembers he doesn’t have his glasses. He lost them. No, did he? Perhaps he forgot them but now they’re lost, or ruined in the flooding situation in his apartment.

“I also checked your eyes when you were under. There was a risk of concussion with the way you fell. It was clear that the blindness was not a new phenomenon.” Bruce drones on in his annoyingly-calm voice.

His feet slowly move in the direction of the elevator, cane moving before his feet and then trailing after as he stops thinking about walking and focuses on the lack of glasses.

Surely they can’t be at the apartment?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I really like disassociative Matt. I find it effective when writing in terms of showing how muddled his mindset is but, also, he's sleep deprived and etc. While I'm still introducing characters, the real fun is about to start and drama will ensue. Enjoy!


	6. One and One is Three

Karen’s there when he wakes up, second day of “treatment”. Her hand is running through his hair, lightly rousing him from his fitful nap. The first thing Matt notices is that he’s slick with sweat, the second thing he notices is that Foggy’s scent is nowhere to be found.

“I didn’t think I should bring you coffee, you guys always say it tastes terrible, so I made some sandwiches.” Karen explains, her voice almost breaking from how soft it is. Each word is a sad breath.

Matt’s angry, for just a second. She tells him it’s tuna, his favourite, and everything feels so much better. He’s even eager.

She holds his arm for support when he sits up, raising his upper body. He fell asleep in nothing more than his underwear, so it’s not surprising that Karen gasps when she sees his ribs.

It still hurts. Drawing the blanket closer, he pulls it up in order to hide his chest but Karen claims it and tucks it neatly around his waist.

“I’m not a great chef but Foggy thought you’d like it.” She explains as Matt takes her offered container, the weight of too much food inside.

Matt stops, lowering his hand. The thought of Foggy sends a bitter taste to the tip of his tongue. His eyes avert, lowering slightly, as his head tilts down and Karen realises immediately that she’s slipped up.

“He wanted to come.”

“He’s not here.” Matt’s lips crack open, the tang of blood pooling against the dry skin. His tongue darts out to lick it away, but his mouth is dry and it smears the blood more than cleaning it.

“Dr Banner is outside, should I ask him to get you a drink?” Karen offers, then reaches for something leathery and coarse. Her bag rests on her lap as she rummages around inside. “Or I have orange juice?”

Matt recoils, turning his head. “No. Thanks.”

Karen studies him for a moment – he can hear the crease in her brow – before slowly returning the cool acid into her bag.

He tears off the stiff lid of the container with a level of effort that most likely looks pathetic, but manages to find the sandwich hidden within. Bread feels like too much. It feels excessive and heavy and difficult, so Matt goes for tuna, lifting pinch by pinch.

His mouth fills with salt and fish, harsh and unforgiving but, perhaps in a masochistic way, he enjoys the pungent odour and strong flavour. It’s a lot to take in at once, so a pinch for a mouthful seems like a reasonable ratio.

Karen doesn’t seem offended that he’s ignoring the bread, but he can smell salt on her face.

Matt doesn’t quite understand – he’s eating, that’s what everyone seems to _want_. Actually, he’s eating readily and eagerly with almost no protests from his mouth. Tuna is nice. Karen didn’t even butter his bread (Foggy must have given her a couple of tips) so Matt eats the fish indiscriminately. On the second sandwich, he leaves half of the tuna. Maybe for later, if it doesn’t start rotting.

It feels unfair that people have decided to focus on him all of a sudden after very much of nothing at all.

  


“Bye, Matt.” Karen squeezes his hand, the heat from her body sending a shock through his. She’s burning him. “I’ll come visit tomorrow, ok?”

The kiss she leaves on his head is platonic, but the love is heartfelt and plentiful.

Banner’s at his door, smiling easily as Karen passes. It’s just them, now. Matt and the doctor.

“Karen tells me you like fish.” Bruce remains at the door, his voice pleasant. “Anything you like, we can have delivered.”

“I like tuna.” Matt corrects, thinking of the really cheap stuff with the salty brine and occasional bone. That’s what he likes. “Canned tuna.”

“Tuna sandwiches?” Bruce must be looking at the leftover bread on the table.

“Tuna.” Matt affirms, resting back against the bed.

Usually, when he eats, it’s painstakingly slow and robotic. Something that has to be done. It’s a chore.

Eating tuna is different. It reminds Matt of youth and shitty packed lunches because his dad could never afford anything substantial. He also likes sugarless cereal.

“The body requires a mixture of different foods to function.” Bruce steps a little closer, closing the door behind him.

“I know that.”

“Then why don’t you eat?”

It’s not an unreasonable question, he supposes, but it’s not one Matt wants to think about in too much depth.

“I don’t like it.” His hand twitches without any input from his body, as if a nerve has been struck.

Bruce doesn’t move and his heartbeat is eerily calm.

“You don’t like eating.” He repeats, moving towards Matt’s bed. He sits on the end, his attention never wavering from Matt. Used to slipping into shadows he can’t see, it’s somewhat daunting to have someone so focused on him. “Alright. Can you tell me why?”

“If you could taste the hands of everyone who came into contact with your food, you wouldn’t like it either.” Matt twists his head away. He pauses for a moment, not wanting to just _storm out_ , especially since this is his new living space and he has nowhere to hide. After what feels like long enough, he twists his legs off the bed and gets to his feet, passing Bruce.

Even as he walks out, Banner doesn’t move from his spot, calculating.

Matt pauses in the hall. For once in his life, it occurs to him that he has no idea what to do.

Law school was his drive, then… Working with Foggy? Daredevil? That’s where things got fucked up. Matt’s life continued on while a part of him split off and done its own thing.

Matt’s personality has just woken up in the morning, drowsy and not quite sure of the time.

He stands in the hall, wondering if Bruce is going through his things since his ears won’t focus like he wants them to, when a voice yells at him.

“Yo!”

Matt’s never heard anyone actually say “yo” in real life, so his brain is a little occupied with that when this new person claps him on the shoulder and leads him along the corridor without so much as an introduction.

“You’re the new kid.” He’s gruff-sounding, whoever he is. “Want something to drink, Kid?”

He’s a little indignant. After all, he may be a lot younger than most of the Avengers (Stark is in his 50’s) but he’s no child. Even as a child, he could best most adults.

Not Stick. Never Stick.

Point being, Matt may be short for a man, ok, and perhaps he’s a little skinny right now, but he doesn’t deserve to be called a kid. It’s unbefitting.

“Sure.” He breathes in a daze. He does want a drink, but this “Kid” thing has his mind busy.

This guy leads him right to the elevator, then to the communal floor, where the gruff-sounding stranger passes a couple of warm bodies and brings a can to Matt. It feels lukewarm, but he’s not objecting.

And it’s his now. It’s not his fault, not really, so Bruce can’t complain. Can he? Matt doesn’t care, so he lifts the open can to his lips and sniffs the metal, just checking for anything that shouldn’t be there. Nothing worse than usual, so he tentatively places his lips on the can, ignores the metallic tang of blood seeping from his cracked skin.

“Bucky, Bruce advised that Matt wasn’t supposed to be having any drug or alcohol intake.” Steve’s near the gruff man – Bucky Barnes – and whispering close to his ear, probably not aware that Matt can hear him, even if it’s a little more difficult than usual.

He takes a sip, pooling his mouth with the stuff, and then swallows. It’s just a sip, but the familiarity is comforting. He doesn’t drink any more, the taste is unpleasant, but he keeps the can close to his chest, as if he’s guarding all the power in the world.

“Bucky, by the way.” He introduces himself instead, ignoring Captain America completely.

“Matt.” It’s much easier than with the others. Instead of the looming pretence of Bucky already knowing his name, he almost wants to give it out. With how crazy this whole experience has been, Bucky feels like the eye of the storm.

“Not a beer snob, I like.” Bucky snorts in amusement. He pats Matt on the back, downing his own in several large gulps and never commenting about his lack of drinking.

“Don’t drink alcohol or coffee for the taste.” His voice is soft, unsure, but Bucky’s friendly enough to brush it off with a laugh.

To get drunk and forget. To be more alert after a night of tossing and turning. They each have a purpose; food feels like adding one and one to make three.

Matt misses Karen and he really misses Foggy. He can’t stop his mind drifting to his best friends – his only friends in the world – and feeling more hurt than after any beating. It stabs at his chest, ripping chunks of flesh from his torso until there’s a bleeding void where Matt used to keep his soft parts. His heart, his soul, all worthless now that he has no-one.

“Matt, are you ok?”

He feels like hard edges. Bones and nails and muscle, with nothing to protect anymore. What’s the point is there’s no-one to protect?

“Matt?” Steve’s voice is soft but it’s hurtful to his ears and Matt flinches back, blinking wetness from his eyes.

“Yeah?”

 _Focus your mind, this is nothing to cry about._ He frowns at nothing in particular as Bucky’s heartbeat steps away. Steve lightly touches his arm, steadies him. There’s someone else in the room, but they don’t pester him.

Something hard and cold bumps his hand, gives him a scratchy square of tissue to wipe his face with. Bucky?

“Doing alright, Kid?” It is Bucky, and Bucky claps his bicep lightly, as if he’s scared Matt’s about to blow away in the wind. But the pressure’s building up and Must just wants…

“Can someone call Karen?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Karen/Matt is definitely not a thing in this (I don't like the pairing) but they're close friends and Matt's finding it difficult to be with Foggy right now and vice versa. More Foggy coming up, though! I hope you guys all enjoy :P


	7. Serpent

It’s not Karen who’s beside his bed when Matt wakes up, his head feeling too heavy to lift from his pillow. He’s close enough to the person to burrow his face into soft flesh, covered in some kind of cotton blend. The hand moves, brushing his hair away from his forehead.

“Hey, Matty.”

It’s Foggy, Matt realises. He doesn’t pull away, even though he feels as though, morally, he should. But Foggy’s heartbeat is calling from his chest cavity, the softly thrumming presence of his best friend, close enough to lull Matt away from his guilt.

He feels clingy but he’ll just wait until Foggy pulls away by himself.

“Karen just left to get some coffee. I think she wanted a walk.” Foggy’s throat moves as he talks, the rumble sounding somewhere above Matt’s head.

Matt feels too heavy to move on his own.

“When did you…?” Matt murmurs, his face muffled against Foggy’s chest. He must be sitting on the side of the bed, against the pillows. He doesn’t check.

Matt needs his glasses, he recalls.

“We’ve been here for about an hour, Matt, you don’t remember?” Foggy frowns and his voice goes back to that concerned tone that makes Matt’s heart spike. He doesn’t want to worry Foggy, not again. Before he can formulate a lie, Foggy stops brushing his hair and wraps the other arm around Matt, cradling his limp body in a hug. “I guess you fell asleep not long after we arrived.”

Foggy’s arm is under his head and it’s probably a little awkward for him, but Matt feels so delightfully warm and cosy under the thick blankets, snuggled against his friend. So he stays there, not moving, in the hope that Foggy won’t pull back.

“Karen told me you liked the tuna.” Foggy mulls. “She brought more, but it’s in the kitchen.”

“I’m not hungry.” Matt deflects. This is when Foggy moves away. Matt’s head slips back onto the pillows as if he’s lost all control of his neck. It lies where it’s left, slightly tilted to the ceiling. His blankets have moved on one side and the tranquil heat is long gone, replaced immediately by ice bones and snow skin.

“You have— well, I don’t know; you have some kind of eating disorder, Matt! You’re _starving yourself_ , how can you not be hungry?” Foggy snaps at him.

Matt’s hungry when the food is far away.

The pain isn’t in his stomach, however, and the sobs wreck his body immediately. He must look pathetic because Foggy sighs and turns away from him, rubbing a hand through his hair.

He weeps for a minute or two, not very long, before he feels out of breath and the sadness recedes to just his eyes, quiet tears cutting across the harsh features of his face. Matt’s not sure if it’s the yelling or the lack of hugging that’s bothering him, but he’s worked it down to one of the two.

“Matty, I just—” Foggy returns to the bed and takes his hands, holding them gently in his own. “Matt, do you know how I would feel if I ever woke up in the morning and you didn’t?”

Matt considers that. Foggy helps him sit up when he tries, feeling miserably weak and light headed.

“I don’t know.” Matt settles on.

“I’d be devastated. You’re my best friend, why don’t you know that?” Foggy squeezes one of his hands. Matt turns his head away, sniffing.

His voice is dry and laden with feelings when he responds. “You’re my best friend, too.”

Foggy grabs him in a hug without warning and he doesn’t object in the slightest.

  


Matt knows his eating ‘thing’ is not a body image problem, or a weight issue. It’s an everything-tastes-bad thing, so he’s not really sure why stepping on the scale is so important to him.

Banner’s waiting on him patiently, holding a dressing gown for Matt to huddle in when he’s finished (only underwear is allowed for the weighing) since it’s so cold. He’s not concerned about this number – one he can’t even see – but everyone else seems to be and that makes him nervous.

“This doesn’t mean anything, Matt.” Bruce assures because he clearly needs it. “This is just so I can understand more precisely how your weight is fluctuating.”

Matt’s fingers twitch involuntarily at his sides.

“No-one in this tower thinks you are overweight. It wouldn’t matter, even if they did.” He tries but Matt shoots that bird down with a sharp glare in no direction at all.

He uses the sharp burst of energy to step onto the scale, then listen to its mechanism shifting under his weight. After a moment, Bruce wraps the robe around Matt’s shoulders.

“Alright, you can step off now.”

Matt pauses, turning his head downwards to where the scale should read whatever weight he is. “What is it?”

“It’s irrelevant.” Bruce responds with an easy smile. Matt can hear it in the doctor’s voice and he hates it.

“Then why won’t you tell me?” Matt continues the back and forth. Bruce writes something on the notepad he brought with him (Matt wants to read it) before placing it on the table by the wall.

“Banner—”

Matt freezes when Bruce turns around to face him. His energy fades away before Bruce can speak, leaving him just _there_.

“Did you sleep well last night?” Bruce pulls a chair from his desk and offers it for Matt to sit on. When he does, he feels somewhat better. His bruising aches against the backrest but it gives him time to relax.

“I keep waking up.” Matt breathes, closing his eyes.

“I imagine that wasn’t very restful.” Bruce hums, resting back against his desk. “Do you often have trouble staying asleep?”

He almost sobs the reply but his damaged pride thanks him for keeping his eyes dry. “ _Yes. _”__

_Bruce nods, but he doesn’t comment further. After a moment, he pats his knees. “I think the others would enjoy a visit, shall we head upstairs?”_

_He hasn’t exactly been the friendliest towards the other Avengers. The Avengers. Matt still doesn’t know who Dr Banner is, precisely._

  


_They might have been asking about him, judging by the happy hug Tony gives him upon entering the communal lounge. It turns into a guiding tool of Tony’s to make sure Matt doesn’t escape once more._

_“Horns, I have something to show you.” He grins, spreading one arm out as he talks. “Just imagine that I – philanthropist-genius that I am – created the most amazing pair of headphones in the world for none other than the newest addition to our psycho after-school club.”_

_Headphones, Matt figures out as he works around all the other words._

_“Headphones.” He recites back to Stark, who pulls out of the hug but claps him on the back._

_“Knew you were a lawyer! Anyway, lookie.”_

_Something’s shoved into his hands, something that feels like a bulky set of noise-cancelling headphones._

_“I’m right, though, aren’t I? I mean, unless you’re somehow infused with a hidden cybernetic eye or you’re a mutant or something…” Tony keeps speaking while Matt’s hands investigate the headphones curiously. He puts them on and, sure enough, nothing. When he takes them off, Tony’s still talking excitedly._

_“…mean, I’ve read about a couple of blind people who do it but I’m thinking those backflips require some set of special listen-ers.”_

_Listen-ers? Oh, God, he’s stuck in a tower with a bunch of _children_ , honestly…_

_“Wait, you know about…?” Matt murmurs, feeling his way around the headphones._

_“Super-hearing, am I right?” Tony bounces a little, sounding like a hyperactive child. He smells like coffee._

_“Tones, how long have you been awake?” Bruce huffs, joining them in the room. He steps out of the elevator with a huff, seemingly expecting Stark to be this excited._

_“Shh, Brucie, I finished the headphones.” Stark complains, then stifles a yawn. Gesturing to his mouth, he scowls. “Stop mentioning sleep; they’re contagious.”_

_Matt agrees silently as he covers up one of his own. When Bruce and Tony slip into their back and forth, Matt places the noise-cancelling headphones over his ears and closes his eyes to boot._

_He listens for a long moment, standing still, just to test out the headphones. There’s another spike of energy in his chest that prompts Matt to open his eyes. This energy isn’t like the rest. It feels different from jumping off buildings. This energy is a boa constrictor, slithering out from his heart and wrapping around his chest._

_Matt puffs out a breath of air and wonders immediately how he’s going to get it back because his arms are being squeezed by this phantom snake and there’s no more air to suck back in. He hears Tony shouting over the headphones (nothing is quite good enough to cancel out _everything_ Matt hears) and the snake morphs into a set of hands that lower Matt to the ground, panting as pain settles in his chest and the tightness intensifies._

_He’s dying._


	8. See Me Rolling

The first thing of which Matt is aware is that his friends aren’t in the med bay with him.

In fact, Matt doesn’t hear Foggy or Karen at all. Not on the floor, or in the tower, or even within the boundaries of his hearing. Maybe it’s because everyone has a point in their life when they feel utterly and completely alone.

It might just be Matt.

“Kid, you almost died on us.”

“I want to.” He breathes. The honesty feels like lead in his chest but Bucky doesn’t shout, like he was expecting. Instead, he moves closer and pats a solid hand on Matt’s shoulder.

“Bucky.” Bruce addresses lightly as he enters the room, clipboard in hand. He moves to the side of Matt’s bed, folds his hands in his lap.

“Would you like Bucky to stay?”

It’s sort of weird. Bruce is giving his full permission for Matt to kick Bucky from the room and feel no obligation to tell the Avenger anything. Bucky’s not protesting or looming over Matt, which is pretty nice. What’s even nicer is that he doesn’t have to listen to any more crying, as selfish as that is.

“Bucky can stay.” He decides, figuring that the other man won’t care too much about what’s said.

“Alright.” Bruce nods, glancing to the Winter Soldier then back to Matt. “You had a heart attack, Matt.”

A heart attack in his twenties.

“Wow. Ok.” Is the best thing his brain can think up because Bruce does need some kind of acknowledgement but Matt’s not exactly following because he had a _heart attack in his twenties_. Isn’t that for greying businessmen and overweight dads who eat too much red meat? Apparently not.

Bruce is still talking.

“I had a _heart attack_?” Matt interrupts, just to clarify. Bruce’s heartbeat twinges as he makes an awkward smile – Matt can almost taste the sympathy – before nodding.

“You’re very underweight, Matt.” Bruce lowers his head. “We’ve had this conversation twice.”

He scrunches his face but, deep in his swimming head, there’s nothing to find. Bucky absent mindedly shifts some of the blanket over Matt’s shoulders, bundling him up properly.

“Relax.” Bruce sits on the bed, hands up in a surrendering position. “When you’re out of here, I’m going to put you on prescription sleeping medication, if that’s alright with you.”

Matt nods – sleeping is great. Especially if he doesn’t keep waking up to the sound of screams and sirens.

Everything is fine until he fucking moves.

“What is that?” Matt chokes, almost, at the feeling of something in his throat. It triggers his gag reflex twice before he can finally calm down and realise that this thing isn’t leaving him. He almost considers a tapeworm but what would it eat?

“Don’t move too much.” Bruce advises, offering a tissue after the gagging. When Matt feels too exhausted to wipe his face, Bruce clinically does it for him. His gloves feel slippery and synthetic, meaning he’s wearing latex gloves. It’s not as off-putting as the thing in his throat.

“It’s an NG.” Bruce ushers Matt to lie back, covering him back up with the blanket. “A nasogastric feeding tube.”

“You’re feeding me.” Matt accuses weakly, more confused than anything else.

“Not right now.” Bruce sighs, almost seeming angry, if that’s even possible for his mild doctor. “You almost died of starvation, do you understand that? This isn’t you coming a bit too close, this isn’t chancing your luck – you should be dead right now because this _should_ have killed you. Are you aware you have an infected wound on your leg that would have needed to be amputated had you left it much longer?”

Matt freezes. Well, he was Daredeviling and he _meant_ to take a shower and clean up but…

_It takes a minute to place the smell, maybe it’s coming from the tub instead? Matt? Or the suit, like he thought?_

_He should be responsible – go back to bed, get himself ready for tonight. Matt considers coffee but there might be blood on his hands and he’s having a crisis._

Matt’s leg was bust and he’ meant to clean it out but the _suit_ and _Karen arrived._

God damn it.

“I forgot.” It’s weak, but Bruce seems to understand. He sighs and nods to himself.

“Don’t feel bad, Kid.” Bucky says as Bruce steps from the room sounding high-strung and agitated. His heart is jittery and thumping, not like its usual soft tone. Bucky’s right there, patting Matt’s arm, and he doesn’t even bring up the stupid “Kid” thing because it’s the best thing he’s heard in a while.

“Hard not to.”

  


Bruce is officially allowed nowhere near Matt’s new wheelchair… but Bucky just wants to have a chat with him, so it’s no big deal if the soldier pushes him around.

“I’d offer you beer if I didn’t think you’d keel over.” Bucky snorts, pushing Matt (half asleep and trying very hard not to be) towards the lounge of the communal floor.

“You worried a lot of people, Bambi.” Natasha’s voice is soft, just like the fur of a cougar before it tears you to shreds. She’s on the couch, not seeming phased.

Maybe worry is relative around here.

But she gets up and traverses the space between them. Matt smells her fruity, light perfume (it’s deceiving, he tells himself) as she bends to plant a kiss on his cheek. She holds her lips near his ear.

“These are from Dr Jolly.” She whispers. Her hair brushes against his cheek as she pulls away, placing a pill in his palm. Standing straight and perfectly unperturbed, she adds, “Better take them soon and get some shut eye.”

“Natasha wouldn’t drug me, would she?” Matt asks over the happy noise of Bucky’s whistle after the widow.

“Who knows? You’re her new plaything, _Bambi_.” He teases, then nods at the pill. “Gonna take it?”

“I wouldn’t want to miss anything Natasha has planned.” Matt scoffs but he swallows it anyway, quickly accompanied by a light sip from the bottle of water in his occupied hand.

“You dork.” Bucky laughs alongside him, then nudges his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll take you back before you pass out and I have to drag you aground with me all day. I mean, what happens if I pick myself up a gal?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that.” Matt teases, closing his eyes as the movement of the wheelchair spurs some light-headedness.

“Matt, you ok?” Bucky pauses, crouching beside the chair in order to look him, presumably, in the eye. He steadies Matt, who never realised he was swaying, and expresses his concern. “You’re pale, Kid. More than usual.”

“Don’t tell Bruce I’m a vampire or he’ll never stop… bothering me about food.” Matt frowns, reaching up to grasp his head. “Just dizzy.”

“Don’t think the vampire thing will get you out of eating, Kid.” Bucky keeps him steady for another second before lightly patting his shoulder. “Let’s get you back to your coffin before I find out what vampire puke looks like.”

Bloody, Matt imagines.

  


It feels disgusting.

Matt can’t help but be all too aware of the liquidised calories being pumped into his stomach, filling him up without a single flavour passing his lips. In one sense, the lack of taste feels amazing, Matt wants to curl up in a hole and just stay there until people forget he even exists.

“You’re doing well.” Bruce surely knows he’s being patronising, but it’s a doctor thing, so Matt lets it go.

“Who are you, anyway?” He asks, almost choking after he moves his throat. The tube is small enough to not hurt, but its presence is uncomfortable enough on its own.

“Excuse me?” He seems confused.

“You’re not Thor.” Matt closes his eyes, trying to concentrate on ANYTHING other than his stomach right now. This is all getting a bit much for him, so he's glad the soft feeling of sleep is starting to creep in and soothe his worries.

“Oh.” Bruce makes a small noise, then fidgets with something plastic before clearing his voice. “I’m the Hulk. I thought everyone knew that…”

Matt raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t move. Maybe it’s the tube connecting him to the little machine at his side, maybe it’s the wheelchair and his everlasting exhaustion, or maybe it’s just the fact that Banner isn’t exactly terrifying.

Go figure.

“Thor’s off-world, on his home planet.” Bruce’s heart dances around the topic of the Hulk. Matt rests his head back, just before the liquid in the tube stops flowing and Matt finally feels as if he can breathe.

It smells like nothing in particular.

“Hey, Doctor, I took the pill you gave me and I think it’s taking effect.” Matt says with his eyes closed, suppressing a yawn.

Matt can hear Bruce moving closer to him but the full picture, so to speak, isn’t clear. Sporadic, disjointed movements towards Matt take shape as Bruce holding the handles of the wheelchair and pushing him forward.

By which point, Matt is blissfully asleep.


	9. Spew

Despite the sleeping medication, Matt feels exhausted from sleeping too long, too often. Bruce assures him it’s going to pass, now that his rest is deeper and more regulated, but it doesn’t help the yawn he makes as Bruce tube-feeds him liquid fat.

Bucky’s here, because Bucky’s been spending more time with him recently.

“Kid, the tilting thing really makes you look like a puppy or something.” He drawls, nudging one side of Matt’s head to get his attention.

“I’m just listening.” He scrunches his face up. He’d been weighed just before eating and Matt can hear Bruce scribbling down whatever the scale told him.

“You’re looking better.” Bucky averts his head, conveying something to Bruce. Bruce stops the writing and nods his head in agreement.

“Much better, Matt. I’ll be recommending exercise soon enough.”

Matt waves a hand in annoyance at his wheelchair, earning a laugh from Bucky that tells him to grow a pair and wait it out.

It’s strange because he almost doesn’t feel so alone when Bucky is around. Maybe not even Bruce, when he’s prattling on about eating and sleep (and he does, often).

In all honesty, Matt can’t remember how things went with Foggy and Karen. There had been crying and holding hands but he was in and out of sleep so much that there are gaps in his memory that make no sense. He remembers the smell of crying, like sea salt and sweat rolled into one ball of anxious energy.

“Kid.”

His stomach feels hot and cold at the same time.

His level of discomfort becomes apparent when Bucky starts touching his arm, poking and prodding until Matt can’t bear the irritation and focuses on the soldier. He pauses, tilting his head up from his lap and in Bucky’s direction.

“Are you ok?”

Matt doesn’t vomit, but he makes a good attempt over the left side of his wheelchair, dry heaving until he hears Bruce stopping the flow of ‘food’.

“Matt,” he’s using his doctor voice again, the one that is too clear and _nice_ , “tell me how you’re feeling.”

“Sick.” He spits out, irritated.

Bucky’s hands – yes, even the metal one – brush at his arms when he reaches for the tube in his nose, grabbing firmly when his fingers close in on the plastic tube and try to draw it out. It’s painful and sickening, but his body won’t vomit.

“Kid, Matt, stop.”

The firmness in Bucky’s voice is moderately alarming, but not enough to make Matt’s blood burn. Just enough to strike his ear like a scolding hand, boxing his eardrum. He flinches, dropping his hands, and Bucky pulls away almost instantly.

“Fuck.” Bucky breaths. His footsteps circle away while Bruce checks the tubing; he adjusts the NG marginally.

“I need you not to do that.” Bruce says, his voice flat even though there’s still nothing being pumped into his stomach. He shifts, a rustle of coarse fabric until Matt hears his heartbeat beating in front of the chair. Bruce is crouched, below Matt’s head, and most likely looking at his face.

“Tell me what just happened.”

“You saw what happened.” Bucky growls, now across the room. His hands grate against something metallic and flat. “He’s—He doesn’t want to eat.”

“Bucky, don’t answer for Matt.” Bruce is still monotonous. His demeanour is less than angry, but not at all sympathetic. “Matt, if you’d like to explain. When you’re ready.”

He was thinking about Karen and Foggy and crying – he does a lot of that lately – and how he’s…

The rest is blank. Matt doesn’t know, he can’t remember.

He doesn’t want to eat, he can’t sleep, and he cries, a lot. These as the things he knows and, when recited to Bruce in a methodical fashion, the doctor exhales deeply and air swishes past his head as he nods, curly hair flopping all over the place.

“How do you feel right now?” Bruce asks, his tone shifting to ‘light-hearted’ which makes the least sense out of all of this. Perhaps he’s hopeful. “Just throw some key words at me. Sad? Anxious? Hap—?”

“Sick.” He affirms, teeth grinding as he focuses on where they’re sitting in his mouth. He settles on an awkward clench in his jaw, unable to find a resting place for his teeth without hurting his cheeks. “I’m not sure.”

“That’s ok.” Bruce stands up, turns his voice towards the tube and his liquid food bag. The tube is being moved into Matt’s hand, Bruce guiding his fingers into pressing the tube shut, preventing any flow. He removes his own fingers, then steps back slowly. “Let go.”

“I can’t.” He insists. The hairs on his body are standing up, one by one, pushed erect by perceivable muscles under his flesh. His stomach is full and he can feel it, more and more with each passing second.

“Even just a little?” Bruce suggests, waving his hand at Bucky, who is pacing uncomfortably in the corner of the lab.

Matt squeezes his eyes shut, moisture dampening his lashes. “I can’t.”

  


Matt curls up in his bed, bunching his sheets around his form as he struggles to stay warm. There’s no heat in the spaces between his bony limbs. With each thought of today – of eating and vomiting and starvation – the shudders worsen.

“Mr Murdock, can I be of assistance?” Jarvis asks with as much concern as Matt can detect from just a voice with no heartbeat to back it up.

Matt squeezes his eyes shut, perhaps too quickly; the dry skin around his eyes breaks in the inner corner, sending a metallic tang through the air.

There’s a knock on his door that he doesn’t answer, then Bucky enters without permission.

“Kid, do I need to call Bruce?” Barnes rushes to his side and kneels right beside him. When Matt doesn’t reply – his lips are shuddering and his jaw refuses to unclench – he reaches out to shake him.

“Cold.” Matt murmurs under his breath.

Bucky stops the annoying shaking and goes digging for Matt’s hands. When he finds them, deep in the blankets, he wraps his own hands around Matt’s and holds them firmly.

“You’re freezing, Kid.” He gives the redhead a once-over. “Probably because you’re stark.”

“I’m wearing underwear.” Matt closes his eyes, focusing on the warmth in Bucky’s hands. “I can’t sleep in clothes.”

Bucky nods, considering. After a moment, he rips his hands away and lifts the covers, causing Matt to recoil from the cold air of the room.

“Scoot.” He says, making his way into Matt’s bed. Once he’s in, Matt shifts awkwardly. It must be enough of an indication that _this is strange_ because Bucky huffs. “I’m keeping you warm.”

Bucky is warm when Matt wriggles closer, syphoning off Bucky’s warmth since he can’t make any of his own. Bucky startles when Matt’s cold feet connect with his own, however he settles easily enough.

“You need to eat.” Bucky says, just above his head.

“People keep saying that.” Matt scoffs against his pillow, tempted to wriggle away from Bucky, yet needing heat. Needing a friend.

“Don’t fall asleep just yet.” Bucky wipes a hand over Matt’s face, pawing away some of his hair. “Kid, you’re never going to be happy if you keep this up. Don’t you want that?”

What _is_ being happy? How exactly does one achieve happiness? Is it accidental or can it be brought forth?

Matt’s happiness is a special kind of closeness he shared with his father. Snuggled under his father’s arm when the other boys picked on him a little more than he could tolerate. Watching his father sing to him, lips barely moving in the cheap lighting of their home. Later, listening to the husky rasp of his father’s breath, vibrating through the air in a soft flow of music. Every thought of his father is riddled with death and blood and hurt.

Matt’s stomach feels full and heavy in his gut.

“If I were to eat,” Matt shakes against Bucky’s burning form, feeling as young as Bucky must see him, “I would feel it, taste it, too much and I’d...”

“Spew?” The rumble of Bucky’s throat is muffled by the dense pillows. “Ok – what if we work on that?”

How would his father feel? That day in the hospital; his father’s crying haunts his nightmares and the thought of “my son, my son” whispered against his skin makes Matt want to—

It makes him sick.

His father is gone, that’s irrefutable, but Bucky is here with him and Karen’s tears are burning the inside of his nose.

Matt shakes once more, completely involuntarily, but his nod is genuine.

“We could work on that.”


	10. Doctor's Route

Bucky storms his room, his footsteps sounding jut as unhappy as his voice when he grabs Matt’s arm and prevents him continuing with the sit ups. His new bed is an unstable surface but there’s less pain from the mattress than the floorboards.

“I was just—” 

He doesn’t get the chance to defend himself.

“Shut it.” Bucky’s grip on his arm is firm.

Matt curses Jarvis, if only in his mind, for betraying his privacy, while Bucky finds his resolve. “Jarvis, get Banner for me.”

“I’m putting on weight.” He objects, shoving his arm against Bucky, only to find that he’s not ot enough force to find any leeway.

“You’re overworkng yourself!” The man snaps. Metal grates against flesh as Bucky wipes his hand across is face. There’s a smooth sort of sound, a moist sound, but it’s the stench of nervous sweat that gives him away.

  


There’s a difference between muscle and weight, Matt. Your body can’t form muscle, Matt, it’s consuming protein. Your heart is strained, Matt. You need to rest, Matt. Eat this, Matt, it’s plain – just bread and cheese.

The pain avove his spine, curling down to his coccyx, rubs against the wheelchair as Bruce pushes him to the couch, arranging Matt so he’s directly facing the coffee table.

The “plain” sandwich is in front of him. Harbouring the space betwee hi s hands, the concoction of smells and tastes and textures balances between ten fingers, his fingers, waiting for a set of teeth to come along and make contact.

In this circumstance, an explosion of flavour would ensue. The timer is adjusted to the moments between Matt would take the bite and the contact between his tongue and the food. Then, detonation. Without his strength of willpower, his nostrils would have been liquified before the rancid mouthful hit his tongue. Upon contact, the sandwich would ignite in a stinking ball of noxious tang, rumbling across his tongue into the back of his throat, filling his senses.

The sandwich falls in a disordered mess on the coffee table, crumbs hitting the glass like canon balls in his ears.

Bruce isn’t a therapist but Matt wager he’d be good at t, with the amount of times he’s watched the redhead break down into a sobbing mess. Thankfully, the snot buildup in his nose drowns out the stench of _cow udders and mould_.

“Bucky mentioned that you’re experiecing some sensory difficulties but I have clearly misunderstood the extent to which they are affecting you.” Bruce’s voice floats to the kitchen, returns with forein objects. One, he holds out. “Tissue?”

The paper grates on is nerves; it’s nowhere near as offputting as the sensitivity in his mouth.

“How long have you experienced difficulty eating?” Bruce settles himself across from Matt once more, sliding something metallic over the glass.

Matt blows his nose, then perks up at the fresh smell of fish.

“It was difficult when the chemicals altered my senses. Stick really got it going, though, when he pissed in my soda.” Matt lowers his head, reaching for the tuna. Bruce (the pair on him!) actually pulls the can away, too far for Matt to reach.

“Explain first, food next.” He clarifies, then gestures back at Matt for him to continue.

“He wanted to hone my senses, mold me into a soldier. I had to know if food had been poisoned and now I do.” Matt reaches for the tuna again and Bruce actually gives it to him.

Again, Bruce watches as Matt appraches with tentiativeness, eating as if he expects his food to burn him.

“And if food became easier to eat – more palatable – do you think you could put on some weight?” He asks, tilting his head to look directly at Matt’s face, despite his efforts to turn away.

One look at Matt tells him that Matt doesn’t think that at all.

  


Bruce dips onto the couch, finally feeling the weight that's been bothering him all day leave his shoulders.

“Brucey?” Tony raises an eyebrow from across the lab, momentarily looking up from the Widow Bites Natasha sent him last night.

Bruce stares at his mug of coffee, watching the steam slowly waft into the air. He can smell it, rich and heated, without trying. Reaching for it, Bruce tries to make the difference between this little cup of relatively odourless coffee to the pungency of tuna Murdock seems to enjoy so much.

“Do you think we could create a flavourless meal?” Bruce narrows his eyes, staring through the small mug.

Tony shrugs, not looking especially interested. He reaches for Bruce's drink, taking a swig when he deems Bruce unwilling to do so.

“How do you take the process out of processed foods?” Bruce mutters, then drops his head. “Out of organic foods, even.”

“I thought you'd be all for the doctor route here, Big Green.”

Bruce's head snaps up. Sure, he should probably be contacting a mental health professional at this point, perhaps several, but all he can envision is Matt darting off. So far, he hasn't even tried.

Bruce is building up to psychiatrists. In the meantime, he can't keep feeding him through an NG.

“What about his partner?” Tony pipes up, rather helpfully.

When Bruce gives him an incredulous look, he amends: “Partner in law. J?”

“Mr Franklin Nelson.” Jarvis supplies.

“I've met him.” Bruce nods steadily. “They seemed less than amicable initially.”

“Invite him over, see if he can convince the kid to eat.” Tony offers, returning to tinkering with the Bites once more.

The discussion is over quickly but it wasn't entirely unhelpful.


End file.
